Letters
by mandylouise
Summary: Irina and Jack try to make amends
1. Chapter 1: A Night to Remember

Part One, Chapter One:_  
  
Dearest Jack,  
  
I was thinking about days gone by. Years gone by. Things that used to be.  
  
I've been trying to think of a reason, besides my enduring love for you, as to why I can't escape you, and my memories of you. I know you don't completely believe me when I tell you how much I love you. As a change, I'm going to tell you a more simple reason; I can't forget about you because you were the first one to pay attention to my needs and desires. You were the first who cared about me and pleasing me just as much, if not more, than your own pleasure. God, you were always so amazing.   
  
I remember it so well, the first time, that is. We came back from that Mexican restaurant, and from wandering around the city, and we were laying on top of the bed in my apartment. I was curled up on my side, laying next to you, my head on your chest, my hand trying to feel your heartbeat, and my eyes closed, trying to sleep. You were listening to the news on the television, and you were stroking my hair and my face. Then you rolled me over and started kissing me. I didn't put up any fight, and joined in the battle for control. Then surprisingly, you stopped and just looked at me with your wonderfully deep brown eyes, begging me to give you permission to continue. My eyes told you what I wanted. No longer waiting for me to answer, you moved your head down and started kissing me all over my body. Your tongue just licked, sucked and kissed me senseless. I had my hands in your hair, not wanting the delightful torture to stop. You looked up with me, a grin on your face, and continued your ministrations and started feeling me up at the same time, squeezing and feeling my breasts. Meanwhile, Im just focusing on breathing, deeply, heavily, and my mouth left my control, leaving me breathing your name, moans of pleasure. I was embarrassed about my uncontrolled reaction, and covered my mouth with a pillow so you wouldn't hear my groans of pleasure. In hindsight, I shouldn't have; I'm sure hearing your name chanted as though it was a lifesaving mantra was very exciting. And then , my landlady knocked on the door, and was demanding to come in. What a mood killer. You lifted your head up and were like, "Oh s***, it's Mrs. O'Malley!" I was just laying there, pretty awed and amazed. Somehow, you managed to get my pants back on and propped me up on a pillow. I wasn't much use. I was completely dazed and pleased. When you'd rid us of Mrs. O'Malley (who wanted to let us know that your headlights were on), you came back and laid down next to me. If you had wanted, I'd of done just about anything you asked. I was in such a aroused state, that I was completely open to suggestion. I rolled over, and just clutched you, and got as close as I could to you. You just held me and murmured into my hair, girls are great, girls are just so great, Laura, you're great. I got on top of you and kissed you and started to show you how much I cared about you, telling you how amazing you are. And later, we were just entwined on top of the bed, legs mixed up, my head just resting on your head, in my favorite position. I felt so content laying there, your hands idly roaming over my body. No KGB, no handler, no spying. Just us. My feet finding their way up and down the inside of the leg of your pants, you saying softly, "mmm, footsie." We stayed there as long as we could, and when you had to leave (you had a test the next morning) you sat up and asked so properly and politely if you could say goodnight. I giggled shyly. And by goodnight, you meant kissing me, kissing my breast, and kissing me between my legs. I should have told you to stay. To forget about your test. I should have told you to come back after your test. We could have cuddled and slept together. We should have that day. My handler was away, and I had been able to scramble the bugs in my apartment so that the KGB couldn't intrude on us.   
  
I think that memory is one more physical reason why I can't escape you.   
  
Can't stop wanting you.   
  
We were so young then.  
  
I think that's one of the best moments that I can ever remember after Sydney's birth. I wasn't a virgin when I met you, but I had never had a man care about me and my pleasure. You were the first to care about me beyond my appearance, though parts of it was a lie. Only the name and background though. The rest was me. This is partially why I can't give up hope. You cared so much about me that you made me complete and whole again; the first time since I was a young girl in Russia. It's only one part of why I want to be allowed to love you and be with you again so badly.  
  
The other night, I worked so hard to stay calm when you were with me. Dancing with you just aroused me so much, and I didn't want to let go, didn't want to stop. When I had my hands around your neck, I couldn't resist touching the short hairs at the base of your neck, where it creeps up to your head. I couldn't help but smell that scent that is distinctly you; your cologne (the same kind that I always bought you for your birthday), the smell of the fabric softener you use on your clothes, the smell of mutual desire. I couldn't resist squeezing your incredibly muscular arms. I liked having your hands resting on the small of my back, pulling me closer. Even though we were only masquerading as a couple, a disguise for a CIA mission, I couldn't help but feel the desire creeping throughout my body.  
  
I want to be with you again.   
  
Let's spend the night together.   
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina  
_  
She looked up from the letter that she had painstakingly written, and put her pen down. Pausing, she picked up the letter, and read through it once more. The woman sighed, and propped up her head in her hands. She brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear, and folded the letter in half.   
Walking over to a metal trash bin in her hotel room, she placed her letter in the bin, along with dozens of other carefully folded letters, and carried it out onto the balcony. With the soft rain falling around her, she sat the bin down under the overhang of the balcony above her, and lit a match. The woman stopped, quickly contemplating her actions, and reluctantly tossed the match into the bin. She watched as the letter caught fire, and disappeared in the flames. _  
  
Someday, Jack. Someday._   
  



	2. Chapter 2: Dancing in the Moonlight

Part One, Chapter Two:  
  
She sat in an oversized chair, pillows insulating her from the pain that ate away at her heart. _  
  
"Jack, where are you? Have I made you hate me again?"_ she thought to herself.  
  
With slim black-framed glasses perched at the end of her nose, she studied the latest epistle she had produced. As she reread the lines of perfectly aligned and formed letters, she found herself remembering the event as though it had happened not thirty some years ago, but only yesterday._  
  
My dear Jack,  
  
I was thinking of you once again. You never leave my thoughts, and my dreams are full of images of you and I and how we used to be. My hope is that someday we might be that way again.  
  
Do you remember the time we went dancing? You decided that it would be fun to go out to a night club, instead of our more dates at the bowling alley, a baseball game, or that little café we always went to. Arvin and Emily, who were also dating at the time, came along with us. Ah, how things have changed. Remember the man Arvin once was? That night it was so clear, so honest; the love he had for Emily was almost palpable, it was so overwhelming. He doted on her, worried about her; he did anything and everything for her. But I digress. It is us that is important now.  
  
You came around five o'clock to pick me up, and when I opened the door to my apartment, your eyes shone brilliantly, and I felt as though my breath was being chocked out of me. We both were completely shocked at the other's outfit. I was wearing a strapless red dress that twirled and flowed as I walked. You had on a white shirt and that blue sweater I had bought you on your birthday, and had this adorable look on your face, shyly holding out a red rose. Hi Laura, you had said, you look especially beautiful tonight. I remember how you looked so nervous, we hadn't gone out on a more formal date before, and I knew how completely self-conscious you were, doubting the fact that a beautiful woman could ever love you. What a silly notion that was Jack, you were always such a gentleman, sweet, caring, and absolutely lovable.   
  
Though we were mutually awed by one another, we managed to get to the night club in time to meet Arvin and Emily, who looked like the dazzling happy couple that they were. As we talked, laughed, and sipped at our drinks, I couldn't keep my eyes off you. You had my complete attention. When I felt you slip your hand under the table and reach to hold mine, I felt so secure. You were being so possessive at the club; three different men had come over and asked me to dance, but you gave them your piercing icy look, and scared them all away. When the main act came on, and the room was filled with the sound of gently swaying jazz, you finally asked me, May I have this dance, my dear? and we excused ourselves. Even though you were self-conscious and panicked that evening, when we stood to dance, your confidence returned to you, and we began to twirl and sway across the floor. Later you told me that you had gotten Arvin and Emily to teach you how to dance, weeks in advance, so that you could impress me. Again, what a silly notion; you needing to impress me. Jack, you impressed me from the first time I laid eyes on you. Your tall, lean body, your deep brown eyes that searched my heart and soul, your gently curling brown hair, your stunning smile that peeked out on special occasions; I never expected to be so enraptured by an American capitalist pig when I first came from Russia.   
  
As we danced, you holding me close, the smell that is so distinctly you overwhelming my senses, the way your arms just fit so closely around me, the way that you would kiss my neck and collarbone when you thought no one was watching, the way that you looked at me at that one moment, with such utter love, trust and happiness in your eyes; that was when I knew my mission had failed. Jack, you beat me at my own game. From that one single moment when we were dancing at that club, I knew that I loved you. Standing in your arms made me feel so complete, so needed, so loved. It was the first time I told you that I loved you. It was the first completely honest thing I'd said to you. What a night that was!   
  
I was reading a book, and I came across a poem that reminded me of you. Of course, that's nothing special, since these days, everything and anything reminds me of you. Standing in the shower, the smell of coffee, watching the stars at night, the feeling of raindrops drenching my clothes; all of these things bring me back to you. The poem was this:  
  
If I knew  
  
If I knew it would be the last time  
That I'd see you fall asleep,  
I would tuck you in more tightly  
and pray the Lord, your soul to keep.  
  
If I knew it would be the last time  
that I see you walk out the door,  
I would give you a hug and kiss  
and call you back for one more.  
  
If I knew it would be the last time  
I'd hear your voice lifted up in praise,  
I would video tape each action and word,  
so I could play them back day after day.  
  
If I knew it would be the last time,  
I could spare an extra minute  
to stop and say "I love you,"  
instead of assuming you would know I do.  
  
If I knew it would be the last time  
I would be there to share your day,  
Well I'm sure you'll have so many more,  
so I can let just this one slip away.  
  
For surely there's always tomorrow  
to make up for an oversight,  
and we always get a second chance  
to make everything just right.  
  
There will always be another day  
to say "I love you,"  
And certainly there's another chance  
to say our "Anything I can do?"  
  
But just in case I might be wrong,  
and today is all I get,  
I'd like to say how much I love you  
and I hope we never forget.  
  
It feels as though all of our troubles and the history that divides us, that it hides the truth from both our eyes and hearts. Despite everything, despite the lies, deceit, and pain, despite the powers that be, there is one thing that I am sure of: Jack, I have always loved you.  
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina  
_  
She got up, and once again, folding the letter in half, she walked over to where she had left the trash bin the previous night. She moved as though to toss the letter in the charred bin, but stopped. Tilting her head, she contemplated her choices, and with the letter in her hand, she went back over to the desk, and pulled out an envelope. She placed her letter in the envelope, sealed it, and wrote, on the front. She then placed the letter inside one of her books, and saved her decision about its fate for the morning.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3: Baby Bristow

Part One, Chapter Three:  
  
She woke up, gasping for breath, her heart beating wildly and erraticly. The white sheets tangled around her body, her thick dark hair splayed across her pillow. She sat up abruptly, smoothing her hair behind her ear, as she often did when troubled or anxious. Her hands fell to her lap, and she studied them carefully. Clean, smooth, manicured; her hands looked perfect and flawless, hiding the truth that exists beneath the surface. Some stains may never be washed away, she thought, echoing the words of the unsexed Lady Macbeth. She rushed over to the sink, and washed her hands, scrubbing them raw with the bar of soap. The sins of yesterday seemed to be permanently written on her skin. She was only supposed to meet with a contact, only supposed to receive her monthly update on her daughter and husband, whom she monitored from afar. When it became celar that she had been compromised by her formerly trustworthy contact, she was forced to eliminate him, to kill him. Another man dead at her hands. Sighing, she dried her hands and slipped on the fluffy white bathrobe provided by the hotel. She silently walked over to where she kept her writing supplies and drrew out a sheet of paper. Attacking it with a vengeance, her soul pouring out into the words that she wrote, as she recalled happier and almost simpler times.  
  
_My love,  
  
It's been too long since we last met. Too long since we last loved. Too long since we last trusted one another. Too long altogether.   
  
Last night, I received my monthly update on you and Sydney. I was compromised. It didn't end well. I was terrified when I woke this morning. When I first opened my eyes, I reached out for you and was confused as to where you were and why you had left me alone. At that instance, I rememberred. I remembered where I was, who I was, what I've done, who I've hurt. And then I broke down. I sat sobbing in bed, mourning the loss of so many things in my life; crying because I had ruined so many lives, including my own. I know you probably don't believe me, but yes, Jack, I broke down. You're the only one I can ever say these things too. You're the only one who I want to see my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities, my desires, my feelings. I felt so lost, so alone. I needed you then. I need you now.  
  
Looking at the photographs and notes I collected from my contact before his betrayal, I studied the latest picture of Sydney; she's really grown to be quite a beautiful young woman. She has your eyes, Jack. Those deep, dark, intense orbs that can read into one's soul. She's so much like you, even though she looks like me. I'm happy she's not like me. I would never wish that on anyone, least of all my little girl. That picture of Sydney reminded me of her as a little girl. I have a picture of her from when she was six. It's one of my most prized posessions, along with a letter she wrote me. You've never seen this letter, Jack; it was left on Laura's grave.  
  
Do you remember when we first found out that I was pregnant?  
  
When I had first discovered that I was to have your child, I was overwhelmed by the complete joy and utter satisfaction that filled me. I had already privately acknowledged to myself that I loved you just as much, if not more, than you loved me, despite the fact that my superiors would extract me if they had known. However, I was unprepared for the absolute love and excitement that came with the doctor's call. When you came home that day, you looked dreadfully tired and worn out, your head and shoulders drooping from stress, disappointment and exhaustion. As soon as you saw me though, you almost imediately perked up, dropping your coat and briefcase, and kissing me as you picked me up and spun me around. Your eyes had that glow about them, that look that says, I love you. I told you I had a surprise for you upstairs, and practically dragged you up to our bedroom. Opening the door, your jaw dropped as you saw the room, lit only by candlelight, flower pedals strewn on the floor and on the bed. I had you sit down, and told you that I had a present for you. Lifting up my shirt, I showed the wrapping paper I had taped around my stomach. You cocked your head in that adorable little way that you do when you're thinking, and you had a puzzled look on your face. When the lightbulb finally appeared above your head, and you unwrapped me, you saw the note that said Baby Bristow. Oh Laura, you said, I'm going to be a Daddy. We didn't get out of bed until the next morning.   
  
Jack, Sydney is the best thing that has ever happened to me, besides meeting you. Her birth was the happiest moment of my life; I had a family.  
  
I know I don't deserve it, but I want that again. I want my family back. I want my baby girl. I want my husband. I want the man who is the sole reason I continue to live to look at me, and have something other than distrust, hatred, disgust, or anger in his eyes. Jack, I want you to know and to believe me when I tell you I love you.  
  
And oh, how I do love you.  
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina  
  
PS: When you next see Sydney, tell her how much she means to you, tell her you love her. Show her how your world revolves around her. _


	4. Chapter 4: Mommy's Little Girl

Part One, Chapter Four:  
  
The clock began to ring, marking the new hour. She looked up from the floor plan she was studying and stopped. She thought, _What day is it?_ When she looked at her watch, her eyes filled with tears. It was her daughter's birthday. As the tears began to cloud her eyes, she rushed over to her bag and searched through it, tossing out random books and papers and clothing. Finally, she stopped, and triumphantly pulled out a yellowed and tattered envelope that was marked, in the handwriting of a small child. She carefully drew out the pages, and sat down on her bed to read them as she did every year on this day._  
  
Dear Mommy,  
  
I miss you Mommy. I don't like it without you. Daddy's sad all the time now. He cries when he thinks I don't see him. I don't like Daddy crying. He's not allowed to cry.   
  
I want you to come back now Mommy. I know you're in heaven with God and you're an angel. But Mommy, God doesn't need you. I need you. Tell God that you have to go back to your Sweetie. If he doesn't let you come, he's mean and I hate him. I hate him. He took my Mommy. You're not his Mommy, you're my Mommy. And I want my Mommy.  
  
Daddy went on a trip yesterday. These men came and took him from me too. I didn't want him to leave me too. I held on to him really hard, but they made me let go. I didn't want to let go Mommy. I'm sorry I let them take him. I know you told me to take care of him. I'm sorry Mommy. I'm sorry.  
  
Mily is writing this for me. I say what to write and she does it. Aunt Mily is watching me now. I ran away yesterday. Daddy was gone and Mommy, you're in heaven. I ran to where they put you. They put a stone that says Laura there. I brought my blankie and my teddy and some food and some pictures and some clothes and my piggy bank. I stole Daddy's other briefcase Mommy. I'm sorry I took it. But when Daddy goes away he takes his briefcase. So I took it. Then at that place, I put my pictures out for you. I drew them for you. It's us. I drew Daddy and you and me and we were at home and we're happy. I know you like my pictures. I was going to live with you Mommy. If you come back, I thought you'd come back there. So I was going to wait for you. I had some food. I had my teddy and my blankie. I had my pennies. But the lady across the street, Mrs. Poofy-head, she was supposed to watch me when I ran away, and she sent some policemen to find me. Now I'm with Aunt Mily. Aunt Mily's really nice. I like it better than Mrs. Poofy-head. Uncle Ar is angry that Daddy is away. I heard him yelling at the phone. He said His wife is dead and then he said a bad word that you told me not to say so I won't, but he said that Daddy should be allowed to come home now. I like Aunt Mily and Uncle Ar but I like my Mommy and Daddy better. Come back soon Mommy. Aunt Mily said to pray. I pray every night for God to give me my Mommy back. If I pray hard enough, he'll have to let you come back.   
  
I love you Mommy.  
  
Love,  
  
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO  
  
Sydney_  
  
She smiled sadly, and sat the letter on the night stand next to her. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, tears freely streaming down her face. Her little girl was one year older, and she wasn't there. Another year she wasn't with her family. With her husband. Turning out the light, she gave up on doing any further work, and allowed herself to sit in total darkness, crying herself to sleep.   



	5. Chapter 5: Death of a Friend

Part One, Chapter Five:  
  
Opening the door, she crept into her new hotel room. She moves from place to place, leaving no trace behind; always hiding in the shadows. Her new room was much like her last, and she placed her things around the room, marking it as her own. The day before had been yet another draining experience. She had witnessed the death of a friend that she was completely powerless to stop. She had seen the final destruction of a man, leaving only a cold, calculating being in the shell of what he used to be.   
  
Emily was dead.  
  
Emily, who had been her first friend in America all those years ago. Emily, who had captured the attention, love and devotion of a man who would become a cruel, power-hungry monster. Emily, who had cared for Sydney when she was forced to leave. Emily.  
  
Frustrated, she let out a breath of hot air, smoothing her hair behind her ears, and plopped down in a chair. She had been completely unable to prevent the tragedy of her death. Her efforts to stop the madness were futile. Looking for some comfort, she remembered her running dialogue she was having with her imaginary Jack, safe in the letters she kept hidden in her books. She opened her bag, and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper, preparing to begin yet another written conversation with her husband.  
  
_Jack,  
  
She's dead. Emily's dead. And it's all my fault. I should have saved her, I should have done something, I should have stopped her before the bullets rang out. I didn't do enough, and now another person has died. Another person who was close to me has suffered. Jack, all I am is bad luck. I bring suffering and agony to those who dare to become close. And I know I'm not worth it.   
  
All I have now are my memories.   
  
I remember Emily when I first came to America. She was so pretty and pure; just what I had expected of an American woman. She had curly blond hair, sparkling eyes, and a mouthful of perfect white teeth. I was immediately jealous of her. How dare she have such an easy life? How dare these Americans live so well when there is so much suffering at home. When my little brother and sister are barely surviving, when my father works at a dead-end government job, when we have so little to live off of. I hated her at first. She was so kind to me though, it was as if she had adopted me as her sister. She showed me the city, visited me, talked to me, spent time with me. I came to like her and appreciate her company in the strange new place I was exploring. She even helped me figure out how to meet you; we planned it all out one night. She was dating Arvin at the time, and knew that you two were friends, so she got Arvin to tell her your daily routine. You were always so strict and regimented, always wanting to have things planned out. We figured out that you always went to the library in the afternoon, and that you had a specific table that you always sat at. For days, Emily and I watched you from behind the bookshelves, until finally, she pushed me forward and told me to go sit down with you. The library was especially busy that day, and there was no where else to sit; so I asked if I could sit at your table. You absentmindedly said and didn't look up. I sighed, knowing that this would take a larger effort on my part, and started to pull out my books. Emily gave me a thumbs-up from her hiding spot, smiling at my little victory. I sat and worked for a while, when you suddenly threw down your pencil, jumped up and said, Yes! I've figured it out! You stood happily for a moment, and then your facial expression changed to one of confusion as you finally noticed my presence. Who are you? you asked.   
  
I rolled my eyes and smiled sheepishly, I'm Laura. You said I could sit here.   
  
You sat back down and studied me closely. I've seen you before, you stated.   
  
Emily, who was watching the whole scene unfold, huffed loudly and came out from behind the shelves.   
  
Of course you've seen her, she said irritably, she's only been trying to get your attention for the past two weeks. You must be the most oblivious man alive. This is Laura, and she really wants to get to know you. Now what you're supposed to do is say, Hi, I'm Jack. Do you want to go get some coffee?' She glared at him, tapping her foot impatiently.   
  
You're Emily, you said bluntly, you're Arvin's girlfriend.   
  
She sighed, Yes, I am, but I'm not the important one here, Laura is. Now if you don't ask her to go get some coffee so you two can talk, I'm going to have to send Arvin after you.   
  
I just blushed, knowing my face was probably bright pink at the conversation that was going on as if I wasn't sitting there. I rose and started to leave quietly so that I could escape, when you said, Wait, Laura, and you left Emily with a dirty look and followed me out of the library.   
  
We walked in silence for a while, when you asked, Have you really been following me around for the last two weeks?  
  
I looked at my feet, and answered,   
  
You got this look in your eyes and a tiny smile appeared, How would you feel if I told you I've been watching you for the past four weeks, trying to decide if I should talk to you or not?  
  
I felt a tingling feeling rising up from my toes, and looked you straight in the eye.  
  
You continued, and asked, Now, I know someone like you would never be that interested in me, but I'm going to ask anyways, stumbling over your words and suddenly getting very shy, would you maybe like to go get something to eat sometime maybe? And you looked at me, nervously, waiting for my response.  
  
I'd like that very much, I said, strangely feeling almost like a young schoolgirl again, despite the fact that I was 20 and was only following my KGB orders. I was excited and happy. I just attributed it to the fact that I was starting to succeed in my mission. But now, I know it was because of you. Because you had taken an interest in me. Because I had taken an interest in you. And my interest had nothing to do with the KGB.   
  
Emily was so happy when we started dating, and when we were married. She was so happy for us when Sydney was born, and when we asked her to be Sydney's godmother.   
  
I miss her Jack. I miss her, and I miss how things used to be.   
  
Tell Sydney that I'm sorry that Emily is gone. That I've allowed someone else important to her to die. That I've failed her, yet again.   
  
I wish I could tell her how much it meant to me that she befriended me. I wish I could tell her that I really was her friend all those years. That it wasn't a lie.   
  
I wish I could tell you the same, and have you believe me. I hope you will someday.   
  
Put a rose on her grave for me.   
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina  
_  
She put the pen behind her ear, and detached the pages from the notebook. She dug around in her bag for an envelope, and pulled one out, placing her letter inside, and writing, on the front. Then, she opened the book where she kept her letters, and pulled out the other two she had written. She studied them for a few minutes, and then put all three back in the book, and back in the bag. Later that night, as she lay in bed, almost asleep, she thought to herself, _Maybe I should send those letters to him._ With that thought, she drifted off to her dream world where she lived with her husband and daughter who still loved and trusted and cherished her. 


	6. Chapter 6: Return to Mother Russia

Part One, Chapter Six:  
  
She heard the knock at her door, and opened it to see another nameless face. This one was bearing her order from room service. She thanked the man, tipped him, and was left alone once more. Her life was one of loneliness, without familiar faces, without love, without joy, without happiness. It was if she had been chewed up and then spit out by the world, leaving only a bittersweet feeling. She lounged on her bed, staring at her plate. It was breakfast, and there were two pieces of toast lying on her tray. She studied the toast for minutes, before putting the lid back over her food. She wasn't hungry anymore.   
  
The toast had stirred the stew of memories that swirled around aimlessly in her head, dredging up images of times past. One image, however, remained in her sight, refusing to leave. She sat down at the desk in her room, and drew out a sheet of paper from her traveling bag, and grabbed the pen that she had left on top of her books. She looked at the paper for a few minutes, the image still filling her mind, but she shook her head as if to shake loose the thought, and turned to her paper. _  
  
Dearest love,  
  
I had toast for breakfast.  
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina_  
  
She stared at what she'd written and grunted. She angrily crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the nearby trash bin. Pulling out another sheet of paper, she immediately began attempt number two._  
  
Dearest love,  
  
I miss you and I want to come home._   
  
Before writing another word, again, she took the paper, ripped it in half, and sent it over to the graveyard of unsatisfactory letters._  
  
My Jack,  
  
I was thinking about our little family. I wish it hadn't been so small. I wanted Sydney to have siblings, to have a little brother to torment, to have a little sister to advise and lend her clothes to. I wanted to feel that joy of seeing our baby for the first time, again. I nearly did.  
  
When I was forced to leave, I was 8 weeks pregnant. I didn't know it at the time. I don't know what I would've done if I knew. There wasn't much of anything I could do. When I arrived back in Russia, I was lauded as a hero and an example for other young KGB agents to follow. I was allowed to return to my home, return to my mother and father and younger sister. My brother had left home to continue his education in Leningrad at the university, but my sister was still living in our tiny little house. Months went by as I reacquainted myself with my but somehow, it didn't feel like home. I wandered around the town where I grew up, and felt utter confusion and loneliness in the familiar sights of my youth. Without you and Sydney, my world was shattered.   
  
About two months after I had returned, I noticed the swelling of my stomach, and completely broke down. I locked myself in my tiny room in the attic, and sobbed for hours. I was so afraid that the KGB would try to take this away from me too. I confided in my family, who had no love for the KGB or the government, deciding to keep this secret from the world.   
  
Talking to my mother, I realized that this baby was a blessing. While the government had taken away my husband and my daughter, I had a chance to keep a part of my heart alive. After that, I allowed myself to enjoy my pregnancy, talking to our baby, telling him about his daddy and older sister.   
When I felt him kicking for the first time, I cried, wishing you were with me. When I was pregnant with Sydney, you were the happiest man alive. You used to lay with your head on my stomach, listening for the tiny heartbeat within me. I patted my stomach, whispering words of comfort to myself.   
  
I gave birth to our son on a rainy night in September. He was tiny; smaller than even Sydney was when she was born. We didn't have the same medical care or food as I had with Sydney. I was so afraid he wouldn't make it, but he was your son; he was a strong little baby. I named him Jonathan, after his Daddy, but we decided to called him Ivan so that his name wouldn't stand out. When I looked down at the tiny bundle in my arms, I smiled sadly, wishing my Jack was there with me, wishing my baby girl was at my side, peering over at the new little addition to our family. Our son looked up at me with his little brown eyes and stared at me. We studied each other, and he opened his little mouth and yawned. I cradled him, and sang him to sleep with the same lullaby I always sang to Sydney.   
  
The next week brought the KGB banging at our door. A jealous neighbor had sold us out to the local officials. My parents and sister were imprisoned. I was taken to Kashmir. Our son, they killed him. They killed him in front of my eyes. I tried to stop them, but they kicked me and held me back. My heart died that day. When they tortured me in prison, there was nothing left for me to lose.  
  
I know now I was wrong.   
  
I can't bare to lose you again, Jack. You and Sydney both. I need you. You make me whole again, you make me feel loved and needed, you keep me sane. It's time I gave up on my silly pride.   
  
Jack, I'm begging you to believe me. The truth is all I have. My lies have left me alone and cold. I can't bare this pain much longer. Rambaldi can go to hell. He doesn't hold me, kiss me, tell me that he loves me; he doesn't throw his hands in the air, wanting to be picked up, he isn't my beautiful baby girl who's become a beautiful young woman. He isn't my husband, my heart.   
  
Jack, you are what keeps me alive. You are my lifeblood. I cannot lose you again. I don't deserve you, I don't deserve another chance. But I am asking for it anyways.   
  
Lyubov' moya, pridi ka mne; come to me, my love.  
  
Always yours,  
  
Irina_  
  
A slight smile came over her face as she read the letter; she completely approved of the possessiveness with which she addressed Jack. Sealing her letter in an envelope, she opened the book that was sitting next to her, and opened it to the pages where she had left her last three letters.   
  
She stood up and put on her long overcoat, slipping her letters inside the inner pocket of her jacket. Almost carelessly, she left her hotel room, venturing out in the open. She walked two blocks down the busy street, and stopped in front of a post office. Minutes went by as she analyzed her choices.   
  
Her decision was made.  
  
She entered the post office, and placed her four letters inside a larger envelope. Addressing it neatly to Mr. Jonathan D. Bristow, she handed it to the clerk and paid for its postage, sending it first class to his home in Los Angeles.   
  
She walked back to her hotel, a spring in her footstep, and she smiled to herself; _The game is afoot,_ she thought, _and now the ball is in Jack's court._   



	7. Chapter 7: Musings of a Drunken Man

Part Two, Chapter One:  
  
He found himself sitting at the bar, in his usual seat; the same place he found himself every time his daughter was off on a mission. Tonight was worse than others, however. Tonight he had not only his anxiety about his only daughter, but also, he had a flood of memories about his wife, that threatened to take over his weakening barriers.   
  
The man sat, hunched over a glass of amber liquid, a bottle of scotch at his side. In any other location, he would have been an intimidating sight: a navy Armani suit, blue shirt and red tie, his hair, steel-colored, and combed precisely in place. Not a spec of dirt could be found, nor a single item out of place. This evening found the man in a wrinkled pair of pants, a jacket folded on his lap, a loosened tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair rumpled carelessly on his head. The man maintained an air of hostility about him. No one dared approach him.   
  
As he downed his glass, the numbness spread throughout his body, his mind buzzing, his reactions dulled.   
_  
Laura's going to be angry,_ he thought to himself, smiling slightly at the image of his wife's face that popped into his head.  
  
In his inebriated state, he managed to ask the bartender for a pen, and set himself up to write a note to his beloved wife on a cocktail napkin.   
_  
The love of my life,  
  
You are the sunshine of my life.   
  
Alright, I know, I know, I didn't come up with that one on my own. But it is true, Laura, my dear, my love._   
  
The man frowned, and paused for a moment before continuing.  
_  
But you're not Laura, are you? Irina Derevko, KGB agent extraordinaire, the darling spy who tricked that fool of an American, that's who you are. But you're Laura too. Actually, you're Irina.   
  
When I first found out about the truth, I hated Irina, the woman who killed my beloved wife. When you came back, after turning yourself into the CIA, I hated you even more. You were going to take my Sydney away from me, just as I'd started to fix our relationship. You know I hated you, Irina; I set you up in Madagascar, trying to stop you from hurting my daughter again.   
  
India changed things.   
  
So did Panama.   
  
I found that Irina was a complicated woman. Laura, who was practically a saint in my memory, was a simple, loving woman, who never truly challenged me, but was entirely devoted. Irina is entirely different. She is brilliant, just as beautiful as Laura, except more exotic, she is my equal in all ways. She provides a constant source of stress, amusement, anger, pleasure; she makes me feel.  
  
I can't decide if I should strangle you or if I should make love to you like never before.  
  
Anyways, I want my wife home with me. Whether it's Laura or Irina, I don't care. Actually, I think I'd rather Irina came. She's a little more fun. I want my wife, damnit. It's my right as a husband. I want my wife, and I want her now. Damnit Irina, come home. I miss you. I'm a lonely, hard-assed, old man without you.   
  
If you don't come now, Barnett will seduce me. She'll take me if you don't come back now. I think she's serious. She's threatening your position.  
  
My house is too empty. My bed is cold.   
  
And Sydney will kill me if she finds out I've been drinking. Oh s***.  
  
Wife, come home, damnit.   
  
I love you.  
  
Your sweetiepie,  
  
Jack  
_  
The man giggled, which was an odd sight in itself, at his note. He had used his wife's term of endearment for him. No one else in his life had called him No one else dared.   
  
He crammed the napkins in his coat pocket, and swung the coat over his shoulders. Leaving a wad of bills on the counter, he stumbled out of the bar, and wove his way down the street.   
  
Half an hour later, the man fell into his house, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He discarded his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the ground, and took his napkins out of his pocket and left them in the top drawer of the night stand next to his bed. Clad only in his wife's favorite pair of his boxers, he plopped down into bed, and looked at the empty half next to him. Lonely, he took a picture off his night stand, and placed it on the pillow next to him. The picture of his wife stared at the ceiling. Unsatisfied, the man took the picture, and clutched it to his heart, tears falling, unwanted, down his face.   
_  
"Come home, Irina,"_ he thought, begging his wife with his mind, _"come home."_ With that, the man continued to cry, silently, as he fell into a heavy drunken slumber.   
  



	8. Chapter 8: Chef Jack

Part Two, Chapter Two:  
  
The man found himself in a dark and noisy nightclub. He had been sent undercover by his superior, Kendall, to New York, where he was tracking a man who was marked for elimination by his former employer's (Arvin Sloane) superiors, the Alliance. Apparently, his target had double-crossed the Alliance, selling them faulty weaponry. He was to contact his target, posing as a potential client, steal whatever information he could, and then assassinate the leader.   
  
Thus, he found himself wearing a pair of jeans, a fitted white tee-shirt, a thick black belt, with a black blazer swung over his shoulder, standing in the entrance to a popular club.   
_  
What the hell am I doing here?_ he thought, _I'm Jack Bristow. I'm not some stupid junior agent who gets sent out on assassinations or eliminations or whatever they're calling it these days. Besides, I'm too old for this._ He grumbled, his frustration showing on his face.   
  
According to his mission brief, he was supposed to be a disgruntled CIA agent who had broken off from the agency and was going freelance.  
_  
Ha ha ha! Doesn't seem too hard,_ he thought, with a smirk on his face as he was struck by the irony of his cover once again.   
  
The man sat himself down at the bar, and surveyed his surroundings. A mass of people were on the floor, dancing, moving, touching; very different from the jazz clubs or local bars that the man frequented at home.   
  
Ordering himself a scotch, tall, no ice, he paused for a moment, and listened to the music that was blaring.  
_  
Three, six, nine, damn your fine  
Move it till you sock it to me one more time  
Get low, get low (Get Low) get low (Get low) get low (Get low)  
To the window, to the wall (To the wall)   
Till the sweat drop down my balls (My Balls)  
All these bitches crawl (Crawl)  
Y'all skeet skeet motherf***ers (Motherf***ers)  
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn)  
Y'all skeet skeet motherf***ers (Motherf***ers)  
Y'all skeet skeet god damn (God Damn)  
_  
Shaking his head in utter disgust, he turned back to his drink, and began a familiar ritual that took over him every time he found himself in a bar. As time passed, his target had yet to show up, and so the man allowed himself to numb his mind and body, escaping the feelings he tried so hard to deny.   
  
People attempted to engage the man, whether it be in conversation, dancing, or other offers a number of women had made him, yet all were angrily rebuffed. The last woman had left her telephone number written on a pair of red lacy panties.   
  
The man studied the panties, and smirked once again; his wife would not be pleased to see other women throwing their underwear at him.   
  
His wife.   
  
He got up from his seat abruptly and left the club. Shivering in the chilly night air, the man pulled out a tape recorder from his pocket and contemplated it. A few minutes had gone by, when he came to a decision. He pushed down the little red button that read and started to speak.   
_  
My lovey-dovey wife,   
  
My Laura,  
  
My Irina,  
  
My whatever-you-want-to-call-yourself-now,  
  
I warned you that you should come back before someone displaced you in my heart and affections. Women have been throwing their underwear at me. I have a pair of red lacy bikini underwear, like the kind I bought you for your birthday, with some woman's phone number written in lipstick on them. So there! I told you to come back.   
  
Of course, they're only the panties. Not the woman that goes with them.   
And I'm not easily impressed. Not anymore. Not since you.   
  
It takes more than some lace, cleavage, or a pretty face to get my attention.   
  
You've spoiled me damnit, Irina. And you're not even here for me to take my frustrations out on. I mean on which I can take...that is, for me to on you, take out my frustrations. No, that's not right either. Hmm, you always were better with grammar. Funny though; it wasn't even your first language, and you spoke it more properly than I ever did.   
  
The panties reminded me of the first time we celebrated your birthday together. Remember how I made you dinner? I worked so hard on my tomato sauce, homemade too, and cooked the pasta just right. But the garlic bread did me in. You came into the kitchen wearing a slinky black dress that fit you so well, so perfectly. You came over to the stove, and tasted my tomato sauce, proclaiming it, I remember swallowing hard, watching you seductively licking the red sauce from your finger. You were such a tease that night. I looked at you, and said, read my apron, Laura. I was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron, and you looked up at me after reading it, and looked me straight in the eyes. After batting your eyelashes several times at me, I seized your face in my hands, and planted a kiss straight on your lips. You reciprocated, and we soon became engaged in a passionate frenzy, with your back pushed up against the refrigerator. We adjourned, and took our business to your couch, and fell into the overstuffed cushions. After wandering hands and mouths had their fill, and our passion had broken the dam, I smelled something burning in the kitchen. Clad only in the apron, I realized that I had forgotten about the garlic bread that was in the oven, and the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove. The blackened toast and burnt sauce were the only casualties of the evening.   
  
I don't think we ever had dinner that night.   
  
But even though I had screwed up our dinner, I did manage to give you the lingerie, which became a reminder of our first mishap in the kitchen.   
  
Mmmm, how I would like to make you dinner right now. We always got in the most trouble when one of us was cooking.   
  
Why don't you come home after you intimidate the women who hit on me, and I'll make you dinner? Sounds good to me. How about you?  
  
I could definitely go for the chef's special: sex à la Jack, with a side of hot and steamy Irina.   
  
Delicious.   
  
Love your sweetiepie,  
  
Jack  
  
PS: Come home now, damnit!  
_  
The man grinned at the memory of a dinner long ago that was spoiled, and turned off the tape recorder. He slipped it back into his jacket pocket and patted it comfortingly.   
_  
Sometimes the worst food brings out the best in people,_ the man thought to himself, wistfully thinking of his absentee wife.   
  
He continued to walk down the street, waiting until the next day to complete his mission.   
  
Tonight, he was going out for some pasta.   
  
  



	9. Chapter 9: Daddy's Little Girl

Part Two, Chapter Three:  
  
The man slowly crept up the pull-down ladder into his attic. Sneezing from the thick layer of dust that covered the entire room, he attempted to brush the offending particles off of his jeans. He rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the numerous boxes that cluttered the room. Opening the nearest one, he began to sift through the papers, pictures, and various memories that lay hidden away in the cardboard box.  
  
Today was his daughter's birthday. And since he had become closer to her, he wanted to make sure that his gift was more personal and thoughtful than the ones he had given her in the past. Thus he found himself searching through his neatly organized, archived and filed-away memories of a time when his house was alive and full of love and laughter. He wanted to give his beloved daughter her mother's pearl necklace, which he had purchased for his wife for their first anniversary.   
  
When his wife had died, he had taken every picture of her, all of her clothing and jewelry, everything, and put it in the attic. _  
  
Out of sight, out of mind,_ he thought, as he recalled his life.   
  
Moving to the next box, the man lifted the flaps, and saw a pile of yellowed and fragile letters written in a child's handwriting. Gingerly, he lifted the stack, and leaning against the wall, began to look at them. _  
  
Dear Daddy,  
  
Mrs. Poofy-head said to write a letter to you. So I got Kelly to help me spell stuff right. I like Kelly. She's the best baby-sitter. I like her more than Mrs. Poofy-head. She's mean.   
  
When are you coming home Daddy? Kelly says you're on a business trip and that you got sick. Can't you come home? I can take care of you. I'm good at that. I can make you chicken soup and bring you tissues and wipe your face just like Mommy did. I don't want you to leave me too. I'll take care of you. I'm a good nurse. I can put my doctor dress-up stuff on, and I can make you all better.   
  
I miss Mommy. Why did she have to die? Mrs. Poofy-head says she's with Jesus and God. Why can't she be with me? I need her. I need her more than stupid God. When you come home, can you bring Mommy back? You're my Daddy. You can do everything. Like the time you picked me up when I broked my leg, and carried me down to the car so we could get it fixed by the doctor. Daddy does everything. Mommy says that you're her superhero and that you're better than Superman and Batman together. So bring Mommy back when you come home.   
  
Kelly says I have to go to bed now. Come home soon Daddy.  
  
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX  
OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO  
  
Love your Sydney_  
  
The man sniffled, noticing the tears that were streaking down his face. His beautiful baby girl had written him so many letters when he was in solitary confinement; so many letters that he never got. They wouldn't allow him to have the letters, but Arvin, his best friend, had managed to take the letters home with him, and saved them for him. When he read them the first time, he broke down, sobbing for his daughter, sobbing for his wife, sobbing at the realization that his wife was a lie. He wiped at his eyes, and looked down at the next letter in the stack._  
  
Hi Daddy,  
  
Why did you have to go away, Daddy? Who were those men who took you? I don't like them. They shouldn't take my Daddy away from me. I don't like it without you or Mommy here with me.   
  
I ran away yesterday. Don't worry Daddy, I just went to Mommy's grave. If God gives her back to me and you like I prayed, then I thought she'd come there first. I brought my blankie and my teddy and some food and some pictures and some clothes and my piggy bank. I was going to stay there. Then stupid Mrs. Poofy-head sent the policemen to find me. And they took me to Mily's house. I left Mommy a picture there. I drew you and me and Mommy at our house and we were happy, and we were holding hands. I thought Mommy would like to have a picture.   
  
Please come home Daddy. I know you're sad, but I told Mommy I'd take care of you. I can do that. I'm a big girl. I can bring you the paper and make you food and can keep you company. I don't want you to be sad all the time Daddy. I miss Mommy. I told God he has to give her back. I need her. You need her too. We need her more than stinky old God does. She's my Mommy. Not his. You're her sweetiepie. I want my Mommy. I know she's in heaven with God and she's an angel. But Daddy, God doesn't need her. We need you. I told God that she has to come back to her Sweetie. If he doesn't let her come, he's mean and I hate him. I hate him. He took my Mommy. She's not his Mommy, she's my Mommy. And I want my Mommy.  
  
I'm at Aunt Mily's house today, and she's helping me write this. I tell her what to write and she does it. Uncle Ar is angry that you're away. I heard him yelling at the phone. He said His wife is dead and then he said a bad word that Mommy told me not to say so I won't, but he said that you should be allowed to come home now. I like Aunt Mily and Uncle Ar but I like my Mommy and Daddy better. Come back soon Daddy.  
  
I love you Daddy.  
  
Love,  
  
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX  
OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO  
  
Sydney  
  
That's enough of that,_ the man thought, his throat constricting and tears dripping, making wet drops on the letter. He put the letters back in the box, and moved on to another one. In the top of this box, lay a slim black case which he knew held the pearls.   
  
Taking the box, he left the attic; a graveyard of old memories.  



	10. Chapter 10: Fury of a Father

Part Two, Chapter Four:  
  
The man sat at his desk in the Joint Task Force operational center, idly tapping his pen against his knee. He was in his standard uniform; crisp black suit, blue collared shirt, and a navy tie, his hair neatly parted and combed to the side. As he sat with a stack of paper in front of him, his mind wandered to the news his daughter had recently given him; she had seen her mother on her last mission. To him, it seemed as though she was building a dangerous and fragile relationship with the woman who had first left them twenty years ago. He frowned, his brow creasing thickly as he thought of her; his wife.   
  
Before he realized what he was doing, he began scribbling angrily on the top sheet of paper in his stack._  
  
Irina,  
  
How dare you do this do my daughter! Our daughter. You toy with her as though she was a doll that didn't have a heart, but existed merely for your amusement. Just more of your feeble attempts to reconcile the errors and problems of your past. It's too late though. You can't turn back the hands of time and take a mulligan on your life.   
  
I don't think you even realize how much you hurt us when you left. How much damage you caused. How much pain we endured.   
  
I came home that day somewhat early. I got the note you had left me on the refrigerator, saying that Sydney was at the neighbor's house, dinner was in the oven, and that you would be home shortly; that you had to drive down to campus quickly and pick up some term papers you had to grade.   
  
After changing out of my suit and checking on dinner, I got Sydney from the neighbors. She was happy to see me, and ran up to me shouting Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, and jumping into my arms. I listen to her happy babbling about the neighbor, whom she had named Mrs. Poofy-head because of her fluffy hairstyle, when she said offhand, Mommy was really sad when she left. That caught my attention, and I knelt down and asked her what was wrong. Sydney pushed her hair behind her ear, a miniature replica of your little quirk, and said, Mommy was really sad before she took me to Mrs. Poofy-head. She was crying real bad and before she left, she hugged me really really tight and told me Remember my little sweetie, I will always love you.' And I told her, Don't worry Mommy. I love you to the moon and back.' And then she smiled and said she'd be back in a little while.  
  
I picked her up, and carried her into the house.   
  
Hours went by.   
  
I fed Sydney and put her to bed, tell her that I'd have Mommy kiss her goodnight when she came home.   
  
I sat at the table, my dinner ice cold, waiting for you.   
  
Around 10:30 that night, there was a knock at the door. I will always remember that moment. A police officer stood at the door, cap in hand, and told me that my wife was dead.   
  
My wife, my Laura, my life, my love. Gone. Dead.   
  
Weeks later, the day after your funeral, the FBI came and took me into custody. In front of Sydney. She was clinging to my leg, refusing to let go, begging and pleading with the men not to take her Daddy away from her too. They detached her, and Mrs. Erikson took her next door. I watched from the window of the car as Sydney struggled and tried to run to me. Finally she fell to the ground, sobbing.   
  
I was in custody for six months. Six months in solitary.  
  
They questioned me endlessly. Taunted me. Laughed at me. Told me how stupid I was to think that someone like you could actually have loved me. They beat me. Kicked, shoved, punched. I didn't resist.   
They always wanted to know how I couldn't have realized what you really were.   
  
I told them each time, because I loved her. Each time I said it, it became quieter, the blows I received after my answer taking affect.   
  
When they decided I wasn't an accomplice, they released me, or what was left of me. I had lost thirty pounds, my hair was a mess and was starting to grey, I had a raggedy beard. My pants hung off my hips even after I pulled my belt as tightly as I could. I was a broken man.   
  
I'm sure you've heard about what happened after. Everyone has.   
  
How could you do this? Do you even know how much damage you caused? And each time you leave us, it hurts even more.   
  
Don't you dare do this to Sydney. Don't you dare.   
  
If you hurt her again, I will make you pay. I will hunt you down, and you will pay for hurting my daughter.   
  
Jack_  
  
The man crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his briefcase, where it joined some cocktail napkins and a tape recorder. He frowned and continued tapping his pen idly on his knee.   



	11. Chapter 11: Missing the Mrs

Part Two, Chapter Five:  
  
The man, cloaked in shadow, slowly trudged up the front steps of a large, dark house. He entered the security codes and pulled out his keys, the lock popping open with a click. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and dropped his things on the floor, resting his forehead against the heavy slab of maple. He sighed, letting out a long breath, and stood, leaning against the wall for several minutes. The man then moved from his doorway to the floor. He sat, his knees bent, his arms wound around them. There he sat, his papers spilling out of his briefcase, his suit jacket discarded in a heap of wrinkles, his shoes flung across the hardwood floor. Time passed, and he was still in the same position, staring with a vacant and empty gaze, unseeing, at the door. Unwanted, unnecessary images conjured up by his mind, flashing in front of him, his brown eyes bleak and cold.   
  
His stupor was broken as he pulled his briefcase closer. Opening it properly, he pulled out the thick file folder that laid on top of the work he brought home. He stared at it.  
  
Slowly, he gathered his things, and picked himself up off of the floor. He walked to his den, and hung up his coat on the coat rack, sat his briefcase on his desk, and kicked his shoes under his desk.   
  
Again, he took out the file folder, but this time, he opened it, gazing at its contents.   
  
Inside was the personnel file of Bristow, Jonathan Donahue, ID-Class USS-CI-2300682. Inside was the record of his interrogation. Inside was information about every mission he had been assigned. Inside was proof of his breakdown.   
  
The man flipped through the files, arriving at the official report about his emotional state post-Laura.   
  
The man thought for several moments, and then drew out a sheet of paper from a drawer inside his desk. He took the pen that was clipped to the folder, and began to write._  
  
Irina,   
  
The past never goes away, does it. It keeps lurking, waiting for the moment when it makes its ugly return. Memories always float around, echoes of things that once were, shadows of the life that used to be.   
  
We have quite the past, don't we. Ten years of deceit. Twenty years of pain, confusion, and anger. Over thirty years we've known one another. Over thirty years of memories.   
  
When I think about it, it appears as though you and I have more in common now than we did before. Perhaps that is what allures me so. You are much more my equal now.   
  
Even our experiences are similar.   
  
I took my file from the CIA today. I wanted to remove some things to prevent Sydney from seeing them. I had Marshall, our Op Tech person, delete the files from the server as well. Hopefully Sydney will never be subjected to the knowledge of how her father failed her. I don't want her to know. I didn't realize what a risk it would be until this morning. Agent Vaughn is a busybody. He does too much clandestine investigation for our daughter. If Sydney did not find it herself, Vaughn probably would.   
  
Looking in my file, I saw the photographs of my interrogation. It reminded me that I wasn't the only one to be ripped apart by my own government. I remembered how you spoke of Kashmir, saying, You know what this place was when I was here, Jack? A prison. Where the KGB interrogated suspected traitors, and no, I wasn't an officer here. I was a prisoner. Why do you think I learned the sewage tunnels or memorized the mine locations? So I could escape, you idiot.   
  
We've both suffered.   
  
I thought you should know about my behavior after I was released from solitary confinement. Only because I want you to understand why I withdrew from Sydney. I don't want your pity. So I'm including the only record of my as the agency termed it. I trust you know what to do with it after you have gone through it.   
  
I've done a great deal of thinking lately. About you. About me. About Sydney.   
  
It's hard to explain, but I suppose the best thing to do would be to flat out come forward with it; I miss you.   
  
I never thought I'd find myself feeling that way about you. We both know, all too well, about my desire to kill you, to see you punished, to remove you from both my life and Sydney's life. Even after you returned, sitting in your glass cage, I tried to destroy you and the things you represented to me.   
  
But now, there's something inside me that I thought was long gone, long dead. I enjoyed our banter. I found myself thinking of you when I was supposed to be doing other things. Working together with you made things and ideas much clearer. You're something of an enigma. For the life of me, I cannot figure you out. But somehow, that doesn't matter. In fact, I do believe it entices me even more. And you're as beautiful as ever.   
  
So perhaps we should meet.   
  
Just to coordinate our efforts to bring down Sloane, of course.  
  
I'm sure you'll find a way to contact me.  
  
Jack_  
  
The man sat down his pen and looked down at what he had written. He looked up, thinking for a moment, and turned to his briefcase, searching through it for some unknown item. Triumphantly, he looked up, and pulled out a bunch of cocktail napkins, a folded scrap of paper and a tape recorder. He ejected the tape, and put it, along with the other objects, into a brown envelope. He slid his new letter inside, along with a group of papers from his file folder, and closed the envelope carefully, sealing it. On the outside, he scribbled down a name; Irina, and placed the envelope in a hidden drawer underneath his desk.   
_  
I'll save that for her,_ he thought, as he left the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.   
  
  



	12. Chapter 12: Ambushed by Letters

Part Three, Chapter One:  
  
Mr. Jonathan D. Bristow found himself sitting in his attic for the second time in the past six months. _  
  
I've gone up to the attic more times lately than I have in years,_ he thought as he sifted through the contents of a box.   
  
The past six months had been especially tumultuous for the man who followed a strictly regimented schedule each and every day; for the man who sorted his socks by color, who arranged his shoes in perfect rows, who was never late, but always precisely on time.   
  
He shook his head, effectively ending his musings about his obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Jack turned back to the box in front of him, and returned to his search. _  
  
It's about time,_ he said aloud to the empty room. _I should have gone through these things long ago. Sydney has waited more than enough time to learn about her family._  
  
Absently, Jack pulled a stack of envelopes, which were tied together, out of the box. He looked down at them, squinting to read the miniscule address on the front. _  
  
_ he thought, __  
  
He opened the top letter, and pulled out the paper._  
  
Dear Dan,  
  
The world is a vibrant, glowing, brilliant place. The song of the wind, the chorus of birds, the ensemble of trees, all make up the opus known as spring. Dan, I am in love, and she is in love with me too. After all my pursuits and wild chases, I find that "happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder" as Thoreau once said. Since the beginning of March, I have been the happiest I have ever been in all my life. I love Laura, and she loves me, and that is all that matters in the world.  
  
We went to New York together for a weekend. She and I have been spending a great deal of time together. It was so wonderful to be close to her. We ate all our meals together, sharing our plates and helping one another order. We strolled around Broadway, Times Square, Rockefeller Center and the streets of New York together, holding hands and sipping at coffee. We sat in the hotel room, cuddling and watching television with her head on my chest, and my arms circled around her. We exchanged sweet kisses and tender embraces.   
  
Dan, I have never felt this way before. Laura and I have more than just a typical relationship, we are connected mentally, physically, and spiritually. She and I are so similar that we complement each other perfectly. When she becomes frustrated, I soothe her temper, and lift her spirits. When I find myself surrounded by dark clouds, Laura brings back the sun, and gives me hope and happiness. New York has become a sort of Eden for me, a Paradise where I have truly discovered love._   
  
Jack sat the letter down before reading another line. He ran his hand through his greying hair, brushing the errant curls from his face. He closed the box, taking the stack of letters with him and left the attic, heading downstairs to the kitchen.   
  
Pouring himself another cup of coffee, Jack sat and contemplated the letters he had found._  
  
Sydney doesn't know about Dan,_ he started to think, when suddenly, the doorbell chimed.   
  
He walked to the door to find a large bundle of letters waiting for him. He thanked the mailman, and returned to the kitchen._  
  
Hmmm, bill, junk, magazine,_ he said to himself, sorting out the mail. _Ad, credit card solicitation, bill, Mr. Jonathan D. Bristow, bill, wait a second._  
  
He pulled out the formally addressed envelope and studied it. The handwriting on it was familiar, but he couldn't place it. _  
  
_ he thought, _I don't usually get letters._  
  
He sat down at the kitchen table, the sunlight shining in from the full-length glass windows. He looked down at the envelope, and ripped it open, like a little child on Christmas, he eagerly looked inside to see who had sent him the first letter he'd received in over ten years.   
  
A group of smaller envelopes lay inside the first, and he grabbed the top letter.  
  
Opening it, he pulled out the enclosed sheets, and began to read it._  
  
Dearest Jack,  
  
I was thinking about days gone by. Years gone by. Things that used to be.   
  
I've been trying to think of a reason, besides my enduring love for you, as to why I can't escape you, and my memories of you. I know you don't completely believe me when I tell you how much I love you. As a change, I'm going to tell you a more simple reason; I can't forget about you because you were the first one to pay attention to my needs and desires. You were the first who cared about me and pleasing me just as much, if not more, than your own pleasure. God, you were always so amazing._   
  
He sat the letter down without finishing it, and opened the next envelope._  
  
My dear Jack,  
  
I was thinking of you once again. You never leave my thoughts, and my dreams are full of images of you and I and how we used to be. My hope is that someday we might be that way again._  
  
Again, he sat the letter down, and continued doing so, arriving at the last envelope._  
  
My Jack,  
  
I was thinking about our little family. I wish it hadn't been so small. I wanted Sydney to have siblings, to have a little brother to torment, to have a little sister to advise and lend her clothes to. I wanted to feel that joy of seeing our baby for the first time, again. I nearly did._  
  
Jack sat the last letter down, after reading the entire thing, seeing the last line, _Lyubov' moya, pridi ka mne; come to me, my love._  
  
Before reading each letter carefully, Jack shook his head, a small smile threatening to creep across his face._  
  
_


	13. Chapter 13: His Own Personal Shiva

Chapter Thirteen:  
  
Jack sat at the kitchen table studying the bundle of letters that had arrived the previous day. It wasn't everyday that he received love letters from his wife. His dead wife. His ex-wife. Irina. A smile graced the usually emotionless face, lighting up his features. She had been thinking of him, just as he had been thinking of her. Jack paged through the handwritten pages, slightly amazed at the comfort their presence brought him.  
  
He stood up from the table suddenly; a problem had occurred to him--how was he supposed to write back or send his bundle of letters, if they could even be called that. Jack smirked slightly at the thought of the look of shock that would come over Irina when she opened the package to find notes written on cocktail napkins and in the margins of various documents.  
  
_How the hell does she expect me to respond if I don't have a clue as to where she is? It's not like the CIA has any idea,_ he thought as he ran his hand through his unruly mass of hair. As he paced in the room, straightening his hair as he walked, an idea came upon him, _Irina will be happy that my hair has grown longer...not now Bristow, you've got to figure out where exactly she is, before someone else does..._  
  
Images of Irina being tortured and violently murdered flashed through his mind. His fists clenched unconsciously, his fingernails almost drawing blood.   
  
_No one is allowed to touch my wife but me,_ he thought, mildly surprised at the amount of possessiveness he felt towards Irina.  
  
While his internal monologue continued, Jack realized that the answer to his problem lay inside his very house--his den. With this epiphany, Jack dashed into his home office, pulling open a file drawer. Inside lay all of the research he had done on his wife--her history, her family, her favourite cities--almost anything he would want to know about her was held within the file cabinet. Most of it was his own private research and files that he had documented over the past twenty years, information that was not necessarily known by the CIA. Flipping through one file in particular, Jack pulled out a sheet of paper listing the location of her various residences that he had recently discovered.   
  
Thinking to himself, he added, _That she recently allowed me to discover,_ a wry smile appearing.  
  
Picking out her residence in Russia, Jack went back to his desk, pulled out the brown envelope that contained his letters, and opened it, examining the different messages that he had accumulated for his wife. He pulled out a piece of paper covered in his meticulous handwriting and studied it, reading carefully._  
  
Opening up to people is a weakness, it is a vulnerability to be exploited.  
  
When this is your belief, you know that you're broken, that you're damaged goods, and that from this point forward, nothing will be the same. All is for naught, and trying to deny the knowledge that all emotion and feelings that you once may have had, have been sucked dry does nothing for you. There is no joy in your feelings any longer. Instead there is only the stony facade that remains. This becomes your shield, your protection from yourself. You know that while a loss of control once left you with nothing, your stern countenance will allow you to go day to day, finding strategic opportunities and exploiting them to your advantage. This continues until you have become the very thing you hated to begin with.  
  
The words from a broken soul have no satisfaction for you. Only utter desolation and the absence of that which broke you might allow a slight glimmer of what once was to escape the grips of your pain. And even then, it is not enough. Nothing ever will be. There is nothing left for you save the frost that has consumed your soul.  
  
Imagine a time when things were better, when lust and love were confused, and the fatal mistake was made. The powerful knowledge that you no longer see the beauty in life that once sang to you, your heart beating in tune, is an Armageddon of sorts. That which destroyed you may still be revealed to be your salvation. Grace has not been bestowed upon you, the path of virtue having been long abandoned. Life is merely a mockery of that which you appreciated. When it is gone, what will remain?  
  
While the future may be lost for you, the power to affect that of others remains in your possession. What will you do?  
  
Often times, hiding one's emotions allows for the truth to also remain hidden. The hidden passions and desires that threaten to drive one insane are typically best not shared. The memory of the trouble revealing your desires once got you in serves as an excellent deterrent to committing the same mistake more than once. However, at the same time, withholding these secret passions may prove to be more damaging than it would be to reveal them. One thing has certainly changed, your need and thirst for an emotional connection no longer fuels and drives your passions. Instead your physical desires are animalistic and brutal. Your humanity is all but lost. Primitive wants invade your mind and only gratification and fulfillment will allow them to be vanquished. And so you become entangled with your destroyer once again. This time, however, you thirst for the most basic of needs, detesting and despising the weakness in you that once would have sought for an emotional connection with your own private Shiva. Your lips curl upwards, almost a smile, the unused muscles in your stony face cracking, but the loss of innocence in your eyes reveals the true nature of your facial expression--a smirk. Realizing now that sexual gratification best comes served without a side of emotional attachment. Thus the twisted tango begins once more, and you and your annihilator dance the same familiar steps with the same familiar faces. All that is different is the tune. It is a bizarre mating ritual. This time, though, your former weakness, your heart, having been stilled, will perhaps allow for a new victor to emerge from the spinning and swirling steps of your sultry and intoxicating relationship._  
  
He stared at the sheet for a moment and crumpled it up; it wouldn't do for him to send his wife a note like that when they were trying to reconcile and find one another again. And he especially did not want to remind his wife of his one-time dream of being a writer.  
  
"_Mom may have been right,_" he thought, "_she always wanted me to write the 'next great American novel._'" For a moment, Jack pondered what life would be like had he made that decision, then remembered that he would have neither Irina nor Sydney in his life, and pushed that memory back to a far corner of his mind.  
  
Jack then picked up the brown envelope with his other messages for Irina and addressed it to her home in Russia, which she reportedly shared with her two sisters.   
  
_I can see it now; Welcome to Chez Derevko, tonight we have a special on torture with the three sisters, Elena, Katya and Irina, offering up a skilled demonstration of their knife-wielding abilities,'_ he smiled vaguely at the idea of a circus-like performance with the three women swinging on trapezes, all the while tossing knives back and forth.   
  
Standing up, Jack went out to his mailbox, and after flicking up the little flag that signaled the postman to pick up a letter, began mental calculating how long it would take for her to receive the letters. He frowned for a moment, wondering what would happen if Irina wasn't there when his letters arrived, realizing that she wouldn't be particularly happy with him if her sisters saw...Jack stopped and looked up towards the heavens, beseeching some higher power to help him avoid torture at the hands of his sisters-in-law and maybe help him get his wife to come home.**  
  
TBC**


	14. Chapter 14: A Spat Between Sisters

AN: Yes, it's been a very long time since I've last updated this story, but at least now, I've finally been able to write a new chapter! I've been dreadfully preoccupied with my thesis for uni, and haven't had time to spare on writing for my own pleasure/amusement. Anyway, here is the latest update! Let me know what you all think!   
  
Chapter Fourteen:  
  
The shrill ringing tune of a waltz by Handel drew her attention away from the man bound to the chair in front of her.  
  
Why is it that every time I start torturing someone that my phone rings? Irina grumbled mostly to herself.  
  
The man, sweating profusely, breathed a sigh of relief at the postponement of his imminent suffering. Irina threw a sharp glance at the man who immediately returned to his previously cowering state.  
  
She picked up the phone, she said irritably into the receiver.  
  
Now what kind of greeting is that for you favourite older sister? came a heavily accented smokey voice.  
  
Irina let out a breath of frustration. What do you want now?  
  
My dear Irushka, must I always have some ulterior motive? Can't I just call my baby sister and see how she's doing? Katya spoke smoothly, attempting, but failing, to hide the taunting note in her voice.  
  
When there was no response for several moments, Katya continued, Okay, fine, I do have a more specific reason for calling--you have a large packet that arrived in the mail today.  
  
And that couldn't wait? Irina asked skeptically.  
  
No, it couldn't. It's from America...Los Angeles to be exact.  
  
_Los Angeles..._ Irina thought to herself.  
  
From a Mr. Jonathan D. Bristow,' her sister continued. Now why on earth does that name sound familiar...  
  
Irina interrupted the other woman, You know damn well that it's from Jack.  
  
Oh yes, Jack. The oh-so-fabulous American; the only one in the world who can melt the heart of The Man?' teased Katya.  
  
Don't you dare lay a finger on that package, growled Irina menacingly.  
Katya laughed sharply. Or what?  
  
Or else.  
  
Now that has me trembling.  
  
Irina whined.  
  
A smile crept across her sister's face. Despite the many years that had passed, the torture she had endured, the continual reverberations of her one and only heartbreak, Irina always managed to remind Katya of the little girl in pigtails who constantly followed her two older sisters around.  
  
I'll only take a little peek; I promise, she said.  
  
shrieked Irina, Don't touch it!  
  
Katya smirked as she tore open the envelope, Oh, look at this--letters!  
  
wondered Irina, _No...he couldn't have...could he?_  
  
Love letters from your beloved husband?! Oooh! What say we read on?  
  
Please Katya...Ekaterina...please don't.  
  
Katya noticed the saddened, pleading voice of her sister and put down the letters. she relented, I'll give you twenty minutes to get here, then I'm opening them, and with that, she hung up the phone.  
  
Katya? Hello? Irina angrily turned off her phone. Infuriating no-good sister of mine! she cursed quietly.  
  
Remembering the man who sat cowering in his chair, she cursed her sister once more. Irina addressed the man, I'm going to be merciful and leave you with only a warning. She took the knife she had been using prior to Katya's call and swiftly drove it through his hand with a sickening crunch.   
  
Pavel bit his lip so as to deny Irina the pleasure of hearing his moans of pain, and succeeded only in drawing blood.   
  
Irina watched the man and shook her head in amusement. She cut his bonds and added, Next time, you even consider betraying me, remember, this was only the beginning.  
  
With that, she turned and exited the warehouse, the rapid clicking of her stilettos the only sign of her haste.  
  
Exactly twenty-one minutes later, Irina stormed up the front steps and cursed the snow for causing the gridlock that caused her to be late. The weather in St. Petersburg never seemed to favor her, from her childhood to now.  
  
She unlocked the door and began scouring the house in search of her older sister.  
  
Irina growled, Come out here this very instance!  
  
She waited, and hearing nothing, chucked a rock she'd picked up outside and hefted it towards a vase of flowers.  
  
Katya looked up from the tape cassette she'd been listening to and paused it, slipping off her headphones. She held her breath and soon heard the sounds of Irina's rage downstairs. Katya laughed; Those two really are the other's perfect match, she thought, standing up and opening the door.   
  
Irina, your sweetiepie' had quite a few things to say to you! she shouted.  
  
Instantly, Irina barreled up the stairs and held Katya against the wall by her neck. Don't you dare do this to me again! she said in a deadly whisper.  
  
Katya just smirked and easily broke Irina's grip, Good to see you too sister, she murmured and wrapped her arms around her younger sister in a tight embrace. Releasing her, she continued, Everything's lying in your room...and I only started to listen to the tape; I didn't touch anything else.  
  
Irina just nodded and dashed off to her room.  
  
Irina sat with her husband's last letter in her hand, staring blankly at it and its attached folder. Idly, she touched her cheek, surprised by the wetness she found there. Brushing off the stray tears on her face, she reached for the phone.**  
  
TBC**


	15. Chapter 15: Thinking of You

**AN:** Sorry about the long delay...so many things going on in my life of late. Some good...some not so good. Had some, I suppose I'd call them, health issues, and then I decided to stay in the States this summer. For various reasons, I've been on something of a sabbatical from writing and reading fanfiction. But I'm back now. Sorry, you haven't quite gotten rid of me yet. ;) Oh yes, and in case you were wondering, there's some dialogue from Season 2's Dead Drop episode in this chapter in a flashback that Jack has. Just wanted to give credit where credit is due! Oh yes, and this story takes place before The Telling, just so you know and don't get dreadfully confused. So, without further nonsense, here's the new chapter!  
  
Chapter 15:  
  
The man wandered around his house listlessly, lost in his silent thoughts of days long gone. Before realizing what had happened, he found himself in front of a room he avoided at all costs; his bedroom. The very same bedroom he had shared for years with his wife, Laura...that is, Irina...err, whatever she was calling herself these days. The man typically spent as much time as possible in the office, on a mission, in a bar, or on the couch in his den, so as not to be forced to enter that room. However now, he stood outside the door, his hand resting tentatively on the doorknob, pondering whether or not to enter the room.  
  
"_Jack, you're fifty-four-years-old; you're not some junior agent or analyst,_" he mentally chided himself.  
  
He shook his head and slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside.  
  
Irina sat back in her desk chair, waiting for her contact to finally pick up the telephone. She idly tapped her fingers against the stack of papers sitting upon her desk.  
  
  
  
Ah, Yuri.  
  
Irina, how are you, my dear?  
  
I've been better. Tell me, have you any information on our dear friend' and his next move?  
  
Well, our young comrade, Mr. Sark, has expressed to me Mr. Sloane's excitement about the latest Rambaldi piece that he is about to acquire. Something called the Di Regno heart.' Mr. Sloane believes he is close to completing Il Dire,' Yuri chuckled, adding But you know how close' he really is.  
  
Irina rolled her eyes before answering, Remember, Yuri, that is between you and I. No one else may know of what we did. She paused, The Di Regno heart,' that's in CIA custody, she mused out loud. Thank you, Yuri...I have to go, Irina said and hung up the phone.

Jack sighed heavily and sat down on the bed, resting his head between his hands. Walking into their bedroom took more out of him than he had expected. When he was cleared of any misconduct in relation to his back in 1981, the first thing he did after holding on to his daughter for dear life, was to move his belongings out of their room. He'd called it the adders' nest of betrayal in private. Even years later, the room still held her essence in its very walls.  
  
Jack stood up and went over to the night table that stood on the other side of the bed. He picked up the picture frame that had sat for years next to his side of the bed, and blew off the layer of dust that covered the photograph he knew was there. It was a picture of and Sydney sitting in a rocking chair, with Laura reading Alice in Wonderland to her daughter. The image captured Sydney looking at her mother with awe and delight as Laura read out loud. He hadn't seen that twinkle in Sydney's eyes since then, until she met Michael Vaughn.  
  
He sat, thinking of his wife, recalling times gone by, when he thought of the last time he'd seen her. It was in Panama, when she was getting ready to leave the van and meet Sark and Sloane.  
  
She'd looked at him for a long moment and bit her lip before finally speaking. I love you, Jack, she'd said, looking up at him cautiously.  
  
He'd looked at her, and his lips turned upwards ever-so-slightly, I know.  
  
Jack sighed and lay back on the bed.

Irina began to plan out her next move. If Sloane was after the Di Regno heart, then it was time to see Sydney. _After all, the sooner Sloane was out of the game, the sooner I will be able to see Jack,_ she rationalized. _One ticket to LA coming up_! she thought with a wry grin.  
  
Jack's mind wandered back to a therapy session he had with Dr. Barnett, the psychiatrist that the CIA forced him to see, where they had discussed his wi...Irina.  
  
_She went to see her mother. I tried... Jack paused, I tried to stop her. I made it clear.  
  
Made what clear? asked Dr. Barnett.  
  
Trusting her mother, he said simply. She's playing with fire.  
  
Dr. Barnett rolled her eyes. We've had this discussion.  
  
There's no one else to do this job.  
  
Sydney went to see her mother, Dr. Barnett prompted.  
  
Yes. She's there now... he paused again, looking for help. Continuing, he added, No one wants a happy ending to this story more than I do but I know this woman. I know her charms. I know her tricks. The way she presents herself, she disarms you. Some people have that talent. Compared to all of them, Irina Derevko is extraordinary.  
  
She sighed in exasperation with the stubborn man sitting in front of her. Is there any chance that all she wants is forgiveness?  
  
  
  
Dr. Barnett looked down at her notepad, Be specific about your concerns, she added absently.  
  
Jack thought for a moment, I don't know what it is Derevko wants. Maybe something within the CIA, maybe to recruit Sydney to her side. I can tell you I know this -- Derevko is using this agency and my daughter to get whatever it is that she wants and everywhere I look people are complacent and cooperative! Listening to... he stopped, realizing how furious and emotional he had become, and tried to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he resumed his diatribe, Listening to a woman who killed operatives of the CIA. Who destroyed countless lives.  
  
she wondered aloud, raising her eyebrows.  
  
You asked me what I was afraid of. I can tell you, it's obvious, Jack stopped, I'm afraid of losing my daughter.  
  
_Jack stared with blank eyes out the window; _Funny how priorities change,_ he thought, _I've got my daughter, now I'm afraid of losing my wife._  
  
**TBC** (One more chapter to go!)


End file.
